


Make the Rockin’ World Go Round

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24779839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: The Spellman Sisters have accidentally double-booked themselves as wedding musicians. They turn to some unlikely allies for help.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Make the Rockin’ World Go Round

**Author's Note:**

> Summer of Spellcest June Prompt: Goin’ to the Desecrated Chapel of Love

Hilda’s dusting and inventorying the casket showroom on a hot, lazy Thursday afternoon when she smells a plume of vanilla smoke. She hates it when Zelda smokes in the casket showroom—it yellows all the interiors, and the lingering stale odor of it makes an unpleasant environment for modern customers who are a lot more sensitive to that sort of thing than they used to be. She’s about to start nagging her about it, but as she turns, she sees Zelda’s flushed, incensed face and reconsiders her admonishment. Zelda’s holding a printout of something in one hand and her cigarette in another, and the look she’s got in her eyes is three quarters to murder.

“Which one of us was drunk enough to agree to provide the music at two different weddings at two different locations on the same day at the same exact hour?” Zelda says. Hilda says,

“What? We have one on the twentieth and the other on the Solstice. I remember discussing it.”

“So we were both drunk,” Zelda says.

“I’m not following,” Hilda says.

“Maybe you’re drunk right now, you ninny. The twentieth and the Solstice are the same day, which happens to be day after tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well. That’s a cock up, isn’t it?” She had used that phrase because it’s one that Zelda almost always laughs at. But Zelda doesn’t laugh. She waggles the 8.5 x 11 sheet she’s holding, says,

“Both sides of both couples are from prominent witch families, and you’ve just recently tentatively regained your status after your excommunication. There’s not a lot of leeway here. If we’re perceived as having slighted one of them, this could be a disaster both for our coven and for us personally. You need to find a way to rectify this situation.”

“Why is it solely my job to fix it? And what is this document you keep waving in my face?” Hilda says.

“It’s my paper trail for why it’s your fault. Email exchanges between you and the respective mothers of the brides confirming dates and payment schedules,” Zelda says. She brandishes the sheet again and steadies it an arm’s length away so that Hilda can peruse it. She does the no-reading-glasses dance until she can focus and then huffs, stamps her foot, says, 

“I remember that evening. We were together in the office when I composed those emails. You could’ve stopped me at any time to inform me of my error.” Zelda’s gaze—once so frustrated and violent—softens as she seems to also recall the events that had led to the emails. She cocks her head to one side as she regards Hilda. And she folds the paper in half once, twice. Hilda hasn’t yet perceived this change and is still revved up, though. She continues, “You knew just as well as I did, or better probably, how important for our social station it would be to deliver quality services to these people, but you sat on the arm of my chair, overseeing everything I was typing, breathing down my neck and leering down my blouse and telling me where to put semicolons even as you let me send business emails with erroneous information about something so easily verifiable as dates on the calendar!” Hilda’s angry and panting, and Zelda has taken three steps toward her, is now inches away, says,

“I remember that evening, too. We were both slightly inebriated and rather more than slightly eager to get naked with each other sooner rather than later. Otherwise I might’ve been more circumspect.” She slides the folded paper down Hilda’s exposed chest, beneath the loose collar of her dress, into the right cup of her bra. “I’ve got a lot on my plate with Blackwood just now. I trust you’ll take care of this…?”

Hilda blinks up at her. She can’t stay angry at Zelda when she’s flirtatious, can’t retain an argument when Zelda’s flirtatious. But she can be answeringly flirtatious. Hilda says,

“I can’t guarantee how satisfied you’ll be with my methods, but I’ve never once seen you dissatisfied with my outcome.”

Zelda laughs and goes to take a puff on her cigarette, but it’s one of the “new-fangled fire-proof sons of bitches” as she calls them and has gone out with inactivity. Hilda produces a cheap lighter she keeps in her cardigan pocket for just such occasions (and also for comfortingly scented candles, ritualistic incense, and weed when she takes a notion) and relights it for her. They look at each other, both sets of greenish eyes sparkling at each other.

“You’ve always been particularly adept at sorting out a cock up,” Zelda says.

Hilda laughs, pecks her on the lips, then says,

“Now get out of here. You know I hate it when you smoke in the casket showroom.”

xxx

They’re in the office on a hot, lazy Friday around lunchtime. 

Well, they had been in the office. Hilda still is, logging in deposits. Zelda has gone briefly to the kitchen to have a quick bite. But she’s back now at the doorway of the office holding a mason jar of pickled beets and a fork and frowning. Zelda says,

“My phone just alerted me to an Event added to my calendar. ‘Wedding Rehearsal 8pm Tonight.’”

“Hmm?” Hilda says absently as she’s copying and pasting from one spreadsheet to another.

“You can’t be serious,” Zelda says.

Hilda’s focused on her task and doesn’t respond, is hardly even listening. 

Zelda throws the fork. It lands precisely tines down between the g and h on Hilda’s keyboard. Hilda squeaks a little in surprise but mostly in annoyance. She takes off her reading glasses, turns toward Zelda.

“Yes, you wanted to speak with me, darling sister?” Hilda says, sarcastically overly sweetly.

They look at each other. 

Zelda then looks rather longingly at the fork she’d used to make her statement, looks at the jar of beets. She takes a breath, straightens her shoulders, and plunges two fingers into the purple brine, takes one small whole beet between them. She says,

“I opened the email attachment to the notification, and each line of that email is more reprehensible than the previous. Shirley Jackson will be putting on a glamour to portray you at the Snaketongue-Malfleur wedding as my accompanist?! Satan in Hell! You know I don’t trust that woman as far as I can throw her!”

Hilda taps the save button on each file she’s been working on and closes the laptop. She knows this discussion will require her full brain power. She says,

“On this tight a schedule, I had a very limited selection to choose from. And Shirley Jackson is a very good pianist.”

Zelda scoffs, says,

“And all you had to do to secure her abilities for our use was promise to let her put her hand up your skirt, which she’s been waiting for an opportunity to do for over a hundred years.”

“You always have to take everything to a vulgar extreme,” Hilda says.

“But I’m not wrong, am I?”

Hilda blinks, doesn’t make eye contact as she says,

“A promise to let her treat me to dinner at the vegetarian place in Riverdale is hardly letting her put her hand up my skirt,” Hilda says.

Zelda laughs humorlessly, says,

“Sure. OK. I can almost believe that because I know both that you’re not attracted to Shirley Jackson and that she’s stupid enough to agree to a payment that won’t get her what she wants. But what did you promise Mary Wardwell in exchange for glamouring herself into an approximation of me at the Darkbrook-Batson nuptials? I bet she knows how to bargain a lot better than Shirley Jackson does. She’s your type, and I bet she knows that, too.”

Hilda flounders for a second and then,

“I thought you trusted me to take care of this.”

“That was when I thought you were going to come up with a way to charm a couple pianos, maybe do something with animatronics or puppetry or something, something clever. Not just whoring yourself out to all the worst people we know,” Zelda says.

“Well, not all the worst people we know.” They share a look as Zelda finally places the beet in her mouth, the vivid juice staining her fingers and lips enough like blood already but as complement to her flashing eyes especially dangerous looking. But Hilda knows she’s got the advantage. She continues, “I figured Faustus couldn’t handle the both of us. And besides, he couldn’t find even the simplest harmony with GPS. Like I said, I had limited time and a limited selection. I made my decisions based on the even more limited axis of musical ability and willingness to play ball.”

Zelda swallows the now thoroughly masticated beet, licks her fingers, says,

“I can’t help but think you’re not playing ball so much as billiards.”

Hilda processes this statement for a second, says flirtatiously,

“In that case, I call stripes.”

“I guess that leaves me with solids,” Zelda says, just as flirtatiously. She plucks another beet from the jar. “Careful not to scratch, darling sister.” She pops this new beet into her mouth and exits.

xxx

It’s 7:30pm, and Hilda is arranging a tray of refreshments on the coffee table in the music room—a carafe of coffee, a china pot of tea, a pitcher of ice water, a plate of lemon bars, a crystal bowl of a nut mix, a cubed cheese and thinly sliced deli meat platter. She’s had Ambrose move in the electronic keyboard that she keeps in the solarium to serenade her plants. 

Zelda had started drinking bourbon at precisely seven, and she’s now pounding out clunky chords on the piano to whatever song is stuck in her head at the moment—currently it’s Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” After a few whiskeys, as she is now, she’s convinced she can play as well as Hilda. But in reality, she is serviceable at best, is better than average at sight-reading, could be excellent if she’d try harder. But she’s never wanted to put in the effort to hone the craft. So, clunky and inept in practice.

Hilda nevertheless likes Zelda’s choppy renditions of popular songs. She reclines onto the chaise in the music room as she once again goes over the folders full of the necessary sheet music she’s made for Shirley Jackson and Mary Wardwell.

It’s 7:50pm, and Zelda’s voice is very pretty over her very ugly accompaniment of “Blue Bayou.”

And the doorbell chimes.

Hilda descends the stairs and opens the door to Shirley Jackson. They look at each other, Shirley blushes, and Hilda says,

“You’re looking well, Sister Jackson. So kind of you to come at such short notice.”

“Oh thank you, and it’s my pleasure.” Shirley moves to place a hand on Hilda’s arm, but Hilda’s already half turned to lead her up the stairs, doesn’t notice the almost-gesture.

“This way, love,” Hilda says, heading away as Shirley frowns.

Hilda’s two steps above her, about halfway up, when the doorbell goes again. She hesitates for a second. Zelda wouldn’t be too rude or unwelcoming in the few minutes it would take Hilda to answer the door again, would she? One never knows about Bourbon Zelda. Hilda turns, and Shirley stops just short of bounding into her. Shirley’s right in front of her, bracing herself on the bannister, breathing into Hilda’s face.

“Sorry,” Hilda says. “Doorbell. Um. It’s the second door to the right. But if you’d like to powder your nose or anything, the bathroom’s at the end of the hall.” Shirley cocks her head, stares at her, seems to catch her meaning.

“Right, yes, thanks,” Shirley says and weaves around Hilda to finish ascending the stairs.

When Hilda finally opens the door again, it’s to Mary Wardwell draped against the railing of the porch and examining her cuticles, a languid, sexy tableau. She doesn’t even look up as she says, 

“I think I’m expected, Miss Spellman.” 

“You are,” Hilda says. “And thank you for—”

“Probably best to save the thank yous for after my performance,” she says as she looks Hilda up and down, then slides in the doorway, brushing Hilda’s forearm with her fingertips as she does so. Hilda doesn’t shiver, but her mind does stumble over what she means to say:

“We’re upstairs. Right across from my bedroom. But of course you wouldn’t know that point of reference. Um, allow me—” Mary smiles a weird smile at her and starts up the stairs.

All three of them arrive at the music room at roughly the same time, and Zelda’s moved on to a jerky, cabaret-jazz-esque “Fat-Bottom Girls.” She doesn’t stop as Hilda’s making introductions and inviting them to the snacks and offering seats—Shirley ushered to the folding stool at the electronic keyboard, Mary to the chaise—and handing them their rehearsal folders. 

She has a very specific idea of how she wants this to go, and for it to run smoothly, she must have Zelda’s full support. She places a hand on Zelda’s shoulder and leans over, whispers into her ear,

“Would love for you to finish singing this to me after we’ve gotten rid of our guests.” She kisses her quickly and surreptitiously just below her ear. The combination of words and soft touches has the desired effect: Zelda gives her a half smile, stops playing, swings her legs over the bench so she can face the center of the room, lights a cigarette. Hilda swats at Zelda’s thigh with the back of her hand, and Zelda scoots over so that Hilda can sit on the bench with her.

“Thanks so much for coming. I gave a hopefully plausible excuse to both wedding parties as to why we couldn’t be at their rehearsals tonight, but I thought it pretty imperative that we rehearsed together,” Hilda says as she laughs nervously. She then takes the two folders from on top of the piano, hands one to Zelda, puts on her reading glasses. (She has prepared for this evening; she’s even chosen the reading glasses on a neck chain so she wouldn’t misplace them and waste precious minutes searching for where she’d set them.) She takes out the top sheet—an itinerary for the practice tonight. She silently reads the first line, but unbeknownst to her she’s mouthing the words and each of the other women is watching her lips as she does so. 

Hilda snaps her head up, clears her throat, says,

“So. ‘Opening Remarks and Ground Rules.’ We all know the general situation, but I wanted to emphasize that this will be an in-and-out operation—” 

“In and out, huh?” Zelda says, laughs. Mary is smirking and Shirley is blushing and Hilda is rolling her eyes.

Again Hilda swats at Zelda’s thigh with the back of her hand. Hilda continues, 

“That is to say, we should strive to be as professional and efficient and unobtrusive as possible. Do what we’re there to do and leave, speak to as few people as we can. Minimal interaction, fly under the radar and all that.” She scans the room, collects the nods she’s searching for. She looks briefly at her itinerary and then resumes, “We’ll do a run-through in our true forms to get everything in our heads and under our fingers. First the songs all parties have requested, then songs exclusive to Snaketongue-Malfleur and last the Darkbrook-Batson set. And then we’ll do it again in our respective glamours. All right?” 

Mary Wardwell says,

“It’s been a while since I’ve sung in someone else’s skin. I think I’d like to go over everything in order with just you afterward.”

Zelda opens her mouth to give a probably very cutting retort, but Bourbon Zelda’s a little too slow. Hilda beats her to the reply, says,

“I’m sure you’ll regain your confidence as we practice. But don’t worry, pet; we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” 

And with that, Hilda swivels over the corner of the bench, adjusts her music, and verbally sets the beat for the first song in all their packets:

“One-two-three, four-five-six.”

xxx

Solstice morning, Zelda drives the Crown Vic to pick up Shirley Jackson in the Greendale Save-Much grocery store parking lot. They’re scowling at each other and trying not to.

They’re almost to New Hampshire when they finally speak to each other. Until now it’s just been the low murmurs of NPR in the car. Zelda says,

“You should start the glamour in a few miles when we cross the border.”

“I know,” Shirley says.

Zelda has perceived that as haughty, condescending. She can’t stop herself from saying,

“You think you know so much. What do you think you know about my sister?”

When Zelda looks over to the passenger seat, Shirley has already glamoured herself. So it’s the illusion of Hilda’s mouth saying,

“Admittedly not much. Not nearly as much as I’d like to.” She pauses, and her voice is hard as she says, “Not nearly as much as I’m going to.”

Zelda swerves to miss a skunk, then she says,

“As if she’d let you.”

Shirley laughs with Hilda’s voice, says,

“What do you think you know about your sister?”

Zelda scowls openly now and turns up the radio.

xxx

Solstice morning, Mary Wardwell’s pulled into the Spellman Mortuary drive in her Lincoln. Hilda hoofs it as fast as she can with her heels and the gravel. Mary is standing at the passenger door, opening it for her. They’re smiling at each other and trying not to.

They’re almost to Rhode Island when they finally speak to each other. Until now it’s just been the low murmurs of the classic rock station in the car.

“You should start the glamour in a few miles when we cross the border,” Hilda says.

“Oh. Of course. Thanks for reminding me,” Mary says. “Take the wheel a minute?” 

Hilda grasps the leather of the steering wheel as Mary punches the cruise control button and then transforms herself. 

Mary’s fingers—now disconcertingly Zelda’s—replace Hilda’s on the steering wheel.

“What?” Mary says in Zelda’s voice. “You thought I’d put up more of a fight?”

“Hmm. Not sure,” Hilda says.

Mary laughs, turns up the radio.

xxx

Zelda and “Hilda” are shown to their spot in the alcove left of the altar of the Church of the Fallen. Zelda sets up their folders as Shirley Jackson sits at the piano and begins improvising atmospheric background music. Zelda must admit it’s beautiful but rather more minor and melancholy than her real Hilda might play. The ushers have started bringing people in, but it’s still quiet and mostly empty. 

Zelda’s arranging their sheet music, and when she looks up from her copy of “All Things Dark and Dastardly” to ask whether the notation means they are or are not taking the optional modulation ending as they had practiced it both ways last night and she can’t remember what they had decided, there’s a lithe redhead—hair a few shades darker than hers and done up in a voluminous bouffant—approaching them with a quizzical expression on her face. She recognizes the woman but can’t quite place her. She’s about to ask Hilda if she knows her but then remembers Hilda’s not here. Well, they’ve run in the same circles for ages; maybe Shirley does know her. She pokes her in the bicep with one finger, as though if she makes too much contact she might contract something from her. She whispers,

“Do you know this woman who’s on her way to speak to us?” Shirley laughs, raises Hilda’s eyebrows, says teasingly but a mean teasingly,

“You don’t remember her from the Academy?” Zelda scrunches her brow. She’s racking her brain but no names or images of a younger version of her are forthcoming. The woman’s finally made it, is leaning on her elbows on the half wall between them.

“If it isn’t the Sisters Spellman,” she says in a tight little accent, all teeth and r’s, a little too loud for the space, but she’s smiling broadly and looking at “Hilda” with gleaming eyes.

“Zelda Newtfoot of Ponca City, Oklahoma. Aren’t you a vision?” Shirley says. Newtfoot laughs, says,

“Perhaps a sight rather than a vision. Had the worst trouble teleporting here. Ended up in Maine for a bit, and the sea air certainly did a number on my hair. But you look even better than the last time I saw you. Dark Lordy, when was that? During the Harding administration?” Shirley shrugs, says,

“Too long by half, love.” By now Zelda Spellman of Greendale, Massachusetts, is seething, glaring daggers at both of them in turn. She still doesn’t quite recall who this woman is. The name rings a bell; the face is familiar. But she can’t put the pieces together as to why Hilda would know her so well, why Shirley would both know her so well and know that Hilda had known her so well.

“My stars.” Newtfoot looks her over again, says, “Are you going to the reception?” Shirley opens Hilda’s mouth, but Zelda says icily,

“No.” She checks her tone and adds, “Unfortunately. Have to be up early for Black Mass.” Newtfoot smiles at her briefly and nods, and then her attention is back on “Hilda.”

“Well shucks. That is too bad. In all my travels, never have I ever been able to find someone who could foxtrot quite as well as you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Zelda says. Shirley laughs, says,

“It’s gotten her plenty far before.” Newtfoot blushes but laughs, says,

“Say, I remember how well you always liked a good casino. I live right near one. It’s small, but the slots are loose.” She hasn’t said it suggestively, but Zelda huffs in disgust anyway. Newtfoot doesn’t seem to notice, goes on, “Y’oughtta come down sometime. Make a weekend of it.” She opens her clutch and produces a business card, props it up on the piano right next to the sheet music. “So good seeing you.” She turns to Zelda. “And you’ve been a delight as always.” She winks at “Hilda” and zig zags through the pews to her seat.

“What in the heaven was all that about?” Zelda hisses right into Shirley’s ear. She grips her music folder so that she doesn’t slam the fall down on Shirley’s fingers.

“If you want any information out of me, you’re going to have to pay for it,” Shirley says acidly.

“You’re already getting your share for this gig and a date with my sister.”

“Might want to upgrade my sparkling wine to champagne. And the public dining area to the private back room…” Zelda rolls her eyes. As if she would want to subsidize that farce. But she’s got to know. Sure, she could ask Hilda directly, but somehow she feels she’ll get more details from Jackson. She finally says,

“It’s a deal.” Shirley looks at her, says,

“It’s a long story and a long drive.”

“Fine. You can drive, and I’ll email the restaurant.”

“Perfect,” Shirley says just as the High Priest enters, their signal to begin their set.

xxx

Hilda and “Zelda” find their way to their spot off to the right of the sacrifice table of the Chapel of the Sacred Woman of Endor. Mary sets up their folders as Hilda sits at the piano and begins improvising atmospheric background music. Mary finishes what she’s doing and sits beside Hilda on the bench, elbows her in the ribs lightly. Hilda looks over at her. Mary makes a little shooing motion, and Hilda takes the hint that she’s supposed to move up an octave. Mary places her fingers on the keys and follows Hilda’s melody and chord structure, adding a walking baseline and some counterpoint. Hilda says,

“Why didn’t you tell me you were this good?”

“You asked if I was proficient. I am not proficient. I am excellent.” Hilda harrumphs, and Mary leans closer: “Besides, I didn’t want to end up trotted off to BFE with your sister.”

“How would you have known I was the piano player? I didn’t specify in my email.”

“How did you know that I might have any musical inclination in the first place? We’ve never discussed it,” Mary says liltingly. They stare at each other for a second, and Hilda finds it jarring looking into Zelda’s face and knowing it’s somebody else, somebody else flirting with her. She looks away, looks instead at the candlesticks on top of the piano.

“We’ve never discussed much of anything, I suppose,” Hilda says.

“Hmm yes, speaking of. I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve decided what I want for my supplementary payment.”

“Oh? I believe my suggestion was a custom doily set?”

“That’s lovely of you to offer, but much too much work for the service I’m providing. I’d like your cell phone number.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well of course I’d like to have it so that I may use it.”

“Oh. Well. I guess that’s all right. You won’t be calling me drunk to talk about stuff like Che Guevara and the Battle of Santa Clara in the middle of the night or anything, will you?”

“Of course not. My preferred revolutionary is Pancho Villa.” Hilda laughs but as she looks over at Mary again, she sees over her shoulder that the ushers haven’t been seating anyone. They’ve got their neckties undone and are milling around near the entrance smoking cigarettes. She and Mary are the only occupants of the chapel at all.

“Will you take over for a minute? Nobody’s in here. Maybe I should check if I’ve got the time of this thing wrong. Wouldn’t that just be some icing? Zelda would never let me hear the end of it.” Mary nods and transitions to melody, and Hilda gets out her phone. She has three missed calls and an email marked urgent from Mrs. Darkbrook, mother of the bride:

WEDDING IS OFF. SO SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. WILL STILL PAY IN FULL PLUS MILEAGE.

Hilda gasps, says,

“Oh my! I wonder what happened?” Mary stops playing, turns around, says,

“Does that reaction to whatever you’re reading mean we get to spend a nice afternoon taking the back roads home with the sunroof open?”

“I suppose it does. Poor Elsie. I wonder what that Batson rascal did?” Hilda’s still staring at her phone, contemplating a reply email. Mary starts packing up their stuff. A stately woman who has been very obviously crying rushes in from a door behind the sacrifice table. She suddenly has her hand on Mary’s forearm.

“Oh Sisters Spellman! I’m so glad you haven’t left yet.” She’s mostly addressing “Zelda,” but Hilda responds,

“Mrs. Darkbrook. I just received your email. I’m so sorry to hear—”

“Honestly it’s a relief. I’d rather see that sorry excuse for a warlock hanged at dawn than marry my daughter.” She squeezes Mary’s arm and looks at her pleadingly, says, “Miss Spellman, when I told Elsie I thought you might still be here since I hadn’t heard from you yet, she asked me to find you. You were her very favorite tutor when she was young, and she’d like to see you before you go.”

“Of course,” Mary says. 

“Thank you. This way, please” Mrs. Darkbrook says.

Hilda and Mary trail behind her, weaving through the back rooms of the church and end up in the bridal chamber. Elsie is sitting on the edge of the bed crying into a monogrammed handkerchief. She looks up and says,

“Miss Spellman. Thanks for coming to see me. You always told me not to marry for love. I should’ve listened to you.” She dabs at her eyes, and Mary and Hilda exchange a look. Mrs. Darkbrook clears her throat and motions for Hilda to exit with her. She and Mary exchange another look, but Hilda leaves. 

She idly chit chats with Mrs. Darkbrook, but she’s trying to listen to what’s going on inside the room. If Mary says some weirdo Mary stuff and it gets back to Zelda, well… She can’t hear through the heavy mahogany, so she tries to slip into Mary’s consciousness. There’s a block there, though. So she tries Elsie, instead, but it’s so muddled with her grief over her broken love affair she can’t parse anything. The minutes tick by, and finally the door opens again. Elsie is smiling now even though her face is still tear streaked. They say their goodbyes and follow the maze back out. Once they’re back in the desecrated sanctuary, Hilda whispers,

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Mary says, gathering up their things and heading toward the door.

“What happened in there?”

“We discussed how worthless men are, and she asked me to cheer her up by singing her that song I always sang to her as a child. Of course I didn’t have any idea what that might have been, so I just sang the first thing that came into my mind, which was ‘Fat Bottom Girls,’ and that made her laugh. And then we hugged, and I left.” Hilda sighs as she says,

“Sounds like we dodged a bullet. Good work, Zelds.” It feels wrong to call her that, but she’s still wearing her face and it slips out. Mary smiles, says,

“How exactly were you expecting I’d manage to ruin your family’s reputation in five minutes with a girl so upset she won’t even remember the conversation tomorrow?”

“Hmm. Don’t know. But you have a lot of hidden talents,” Hilda says. Mary laughs.

xxx

A sweaty, exhausted, hungry, extremely annoyed Zelda opens the door to the Spellman Mortuary around six to hear faint strains coming from the music room. As she ascends the stairs, coming closer and closer to the source, it sounds suspiciously like a raucous four-hand ragtime. She stands in the doorway of the music room with her arms crossed in front of her as she surveys the scene.

There are two bottles of beer on coasters on top of the piano, several discarded bottles in the trash can. Hilda and Mary Wardwell are sitting thigh to thigh on the bench, playing together. Hilda’s got her tongue between her teeth in concentration, squinting at the music, but Mary’s looking at Hilda, still playing smoothly. 

Zelda knocks on the jamb and waits for them to look at her. They do. Hilda stops playing, but Mary doesn’t. Hilda elbows Mary in the ribs gently, and Mary does stop. Zelda says,

“I’ve never heard of a quick Black Wedding. Was there even a wedding in Rhode Island? Or was this some elaborate trick to get me out of the house so you could live it up without me?”

“Zelds,” Hilda says.

“Where’s Zelda Newtfoot of Ponca City, Oklahoma? She coming later to round out this little soirée? Bet she plays a mean set of redneck spoons, or perhaps _warshboard_.”

“What—” Hilda tries again.

“I just dropped Shirley off at her car at the Save-Much, so I’m sure she’s just running home to change and maybe stop to pick up an eighteen pack of Coors Light. She never arrives at a party empty-handed.”

“I think—” Mary tries this time. Zelda cuts her a look, says,

“All due respect, Miss Wardwell, but I’ve spent all day talking to or about women I don’t like who want to fuck my sister, and I think I’m at my limit.” She looks back at Hilda. “Could you put up a sound-dampening spell, please? I’m going to lie down.”

xxx

Zelda’s lying face up on top of her quilt in just her underwear with a cool rag over her forehead and eyes. Hilda tiptoes in and sits on the edge of the bed, brushes her knuckles over Zelda’s cheekbone. In her other hand she’s got a bowl with some of the leftover meat and cheese from last night, a sliced up and salt and peppered tomato, and a pickle spear. Zelda remains completely still but says,

“It’s so nice of you to come check on me while Wardwell and Jackson are paired up for Seven Minutes in Hell and Zelda Newtfoot of Ponca City, Oklahoma, hasn’t arrived yet to keep you company while they neck in the coat closet.”

“Oh please. You know my naughty party game is Spin the Bottle,” Hilda says.

There’s a pause.

“I’m sorry about my outburst. I was cc'd on the email from Mrs. Darkbrook, but it went to spam.”

“And you didn’t stop for food because you didn’t want to spend any more time with Sister Jackson than you had to.” She pauses, pats Zelda’s bicep. “I really would’ve sent you with Miss Wardwell if I’d known how well she could play.”

“But she didn’t disclose that information and we all know exactly why,” Zelda says.

Hilda sets the cold ceramic bowl on Zelda’s nude stomach. Zelda startles, bucks. But Hilda’s holding it steady so it doesn’t spill. Zelda pulls the rag off her eyes, lifts her head to see what’s on her. Hilda says,

“Brought you a little snack. Want a beer to go with it? I was just about to get another one. Sister Jackson got here with the Coors Light. I told her the beer could stay but she had to go.” Zelda laughs, and Hilda hangs onto the bowl for that, too.

“Yes, thank you— Actually, maybe I’ll come downstairs. Can’t catch a breeze up here.”

“Put some clothes on and meet me at the porch swing?”

xxx

Hilda’s sitting cross-legged in the porch swing with her crochet. It had been a white lie that it would’ve been a custom doily set. It’s been too hot to dick with wool and knitting, so she’s been crocheting lace doilies lately and needs somewhere to deposit them when complete. They’ll probably end up anonymously donated to a Methodist church bazaar.

Zelda’s sitting on the porch wall in a caftan, hair tied up in a scarf. She’s just finishing the last of the snack and the last of the beer. She watches Hilda’s nimble fingers for a few more seconds and then says,

“Why didn’t you tell me about Zelda Newtfoot of Ponca City, Oklahoma?”

“Haven’t seen her in a coon’s age,” Hilda says. She looks up, not looking at Zelda but staring into the distance for a second and then does look at her, says, “Never thought to, I guess. What happened this afternoon to make you fixate on her?”

“We ran into her at the wedding.” Hilda's eyes light up.

“Oh? How was she? Does she still wear her hair like a pageant queen?”

“She looked well. And of course she does, but. Hildie. She was your first love. You snuck out of the Academy to go skinny dipping together. She brought you little presents and did your makeup and hair and dressed you up and took you out dancing. She bribed her roommate Shirley Jackson to go sleep in your room so that you two could be alone together. I. Why does Shirley Jackson know this about you and I don’t?” Hilda sets aside her crochet and joins Zelda on the porch wall, takes her hand.

“You do remember what you were like at the Academy, don’t you?” Hilda says. Zelda grimaces.

“Honestly, no. I know objectively I was awful but I don’t remember it that way,” Zelda says.

“You weren’t awful. You were just… too pretty and too smart and too wild and too restless for your own good. And then you graduated and ran off to Paris and I had a little time to myself to breathe. And Zelda Newtfoot was fun and exciting like you, but there wasn’t a lot of competition or history wrapped up in it. She was nice to me, wasn’t afraid to show me affection in public, was adamant about it in private. By the time you and I resolved our issues, she was a distant memory, one I figured I could treasure as my secret.” She laughs. “And an hour ago if you would have put a gun to my head and asked me who Zelda Newtfoot’s Academy roommate had been when we were together, I would’ve had to take the bullet. Shirley Jackson has always been and will forever be completely inconsequential to me.” Zelda squeezes Hilda’s hand and then pulls hers away, sets it in her lap, says,

“The whole thing this afternoon just made me—” She groans and then, “I’ve just wasted so much time being cruel to you.” Hilda shrugs:

“Formative experiences and water under the bridge and all that.” 

They look away from each other and don’t speak for a few seconds. Zelda forces herself to swallow the last glug of warm beer and then places the bottle on its side on the concrete between them. She spins it. 

They don’t watch for where it will land, are kissing before it even stops spinning. Zelda pulls back abruptly, just as Hilda’s trying to deepen the kiss. Hilda pouts, but Zelda says,

“What do you say we get high and sleep on the screened porch?” Hilda considers this for a second, says,

“But let’s have sex first. Because last time we did that, we waited until we were baked and I ended up with a lot of mysterious bruises.”

“A reasonable stipulation. Although I can’t really make a lot of promises about what we might think is a good idea later.” Hilda considers again and then,

“You get the screened porch set up, and I’ll see what I’ve got in the solarium.”

xxx

They’re lying on the thin cotton sheet on the air mattress on the screened porch. It’s on the east side of the house so it’s plenty cool and breezy. Hilda passes the joint—in Zelda’s cigarette holder—to Zelda.

“I was thinking,” Hilda says.

“Oh no,” Zelda says, scratchy and garbled mid toke.

“You’re quite good on rhythm guitar. I’m sure I could pick up bass in a snap. Mary Wardwell on lead piano, Shirley Jackson on keyboard two. We could start a band. Do both the wedding music and the reception music. I could make us all some black serious-musician clothes that are tear-away. We could wear colorful spandex underneath, make a show of ripping off our staid wedding outfits as we take the stage at the reception. We could be a hit. We could clean up.” Zelda hands her the joint, says,

“Sounds like an invitation to drama to me. Worse than Fleetwood Mac.”

“Oh shoot!” Hilda says. “That reminds me. We forgot to have sex first.” Zelda laughs,

“Well, we’re not that stoned yet.” She takes the joint, takes a deep hit, props herself on her elbow, and leans over Hilda, nose to nose. Hilda presses her lips to Zelda’s, shotguns the smoke. And after the hit is gone, they’re kissing, Zelda’s tongue in Hilda’s mouth, caressing.

Hilda’s hands are in Zelda’s hair snaking beneath the scarf, pulling her closer, and Zelda’s body descends, encompasses. Hilda removes one hand from Zelda’s hair, drags it down Zelda’s spine and then squeezes at a cheek, and Zelda’s hips answer, push against Hilda’s thigh. Hilda starts bunching up the fabric of the caftan, pulling and pulling until her fingers reach skin. Hilda’s trimmed, clear-coated nails are now scraping at Zelda’s sacrum.

Zelda’s pawing at Hilda’s camisole, finally manages to remove it. And her mouth is immediately at Hilda’s left breast, nipple between her teeth.

They’re writhing and moaning. Hilda slides her hand from where she’d been massaging glute over and up to the jut of hipbone, over and down to pubic bone. Hilda pants,

“‘Worse than Fleetwood Mac’? Does that make me the Stevie Nicks of our as yet hypothetical band?” Zelda releases her nipple; she has several retorts ready for just such a question. But ultimately doesn’t care so much about banter as she does about being inside Hilda, feeling the velvet pulse of her at her fingertips. She raises up, kisses Hilda. And she slides a finger into her, feels Hilda tighten against it, feels Hilda raise her hips. She adds another finger, makes sure the heel of her hand connects with Hilda’s clitoris as she increases her speed and pressure.

xxx

Hilda wakes up nude, sweaty, confused, and still high to a brief flash of bright light. She blinks a few times, realizes Zelda—also nude and sweaty and very probably also still high—is standing over her taking pictures of her on Hilda’s own phone.

“Zelds? What are you doing?” Zelda lights a cigarette and is scrolling through Hilda’s phone, the screen light illuminating her face just enough to see that her eyes are bloodshot and avid. She says,

“Woke up to your phone’s buzzing. You got a weird text from Mary Wardwell.” She reads it aloud in a stilted rendition of Wardwell’s voice: “‘Did you know that Pancho Villa starred as an even more macho, romanticised, heroic version of himself in several silent movies?’ Followed by the eyes emoji, the whiskey tumbler emoji, and the upside-down smiley face emoji,” Zelda pauses, looks at Hilda. Then, “Now I don’t know what the significance of that might be to you exactly, but I figure it’s the weirdo Mary equivalent of a sext, considering the time of night and that she is a weirdo. So I thought, what the heaven, maybe we should send her some nudes.” She returns to scrolling through Hilda’s phone.

“Zelds! No!”

“I’m partial to this one, where you’re bathed in moonlight and look very obviously like you’ve passed out after having been thoroughly fucked.” She turns the phone around so Hilda can see it. Hilda pointedly does not look.

“You delete that right this minute!” Hilda hisses.

“Fine. Sending it to myself first, though.” She taps at the screen and then looks at Hilda. “Why is she texting you Mexican history facts in the middle of the night?”

“I ought to change my password,” Hilda says.

“From 1234 to 9876?”

“Oh shut up. It’s not a sext. It’s a joke. Something we were talking about this afternoon.” Zelda huffs, tosses the phone to Hilda, says,

“Another secret to treasure without me.” Hilda says,

“I’d love to gossip with you about crushes. But whenever I’ve tried, you’ve always been mean. Does it mean nothing to you that I love you and continuously give myself to you, support you, live with you, work with you, choose you as my constant? You expect me to sit by and watch you hurt yourself with Faustus Blackwood and say nothing about it, and I can’t even have whatever weirdo bullshit Mary Wardwell might offer over text?” Zelda barks a laugh, says,

“False equivalencies! Number one, I have been open from day one about what Faustus and I are up to although I’ve censored a lot of sordid details to spare your feelings. Number two, you know I don’t enjoy it, that it’s political! But you get something intimate from these secret people that you can’t get from me. You like them! You desire them! I get it. You’re allowed that. You’re a person who needs what she needs. Can’t you see that I’m not the same person I once was? That I’m not competing with you? That I value everything you do for me and are for me? That I wish I could do the same and be the same for you? That I’m jealous that these other women can give you something that I’m constitutionally unable to?”

“You are not either constitutionally unable! You’re just stubborn. And can’t I have friends?”

Zelda blinks at her. She lights a fresh cigarette from the cherry of the previous. She says finally,

“As a woman who’s only ever had lovers, enemies, admirers, relatives, and hangers-on, I guess I don’t understand the concept of friends. I’m sorry. You deserve to have whatever you want.” Hilda mentally turns over the list Zelda’s just recited. She says,

“You spend hours a day analyzing newspaper stories and cost-benefit spreadsheets and the Dark Scriptures, etc. etc. ad infinitum, but you’ve never analyzed our relationship?” Zelda blows a smoke ring, focusing on the motions of that action so she doesn’t break down. “Darling sister,” Hilda says completely genuinely. “I’m your friend. By any definition you’d like to use. I’m much more than that, but I’m definitely that.”

They look at each other in the starlight. Zelda throws her cigarette into the chiminea, says,

“I want to know what you and Mary Wardwell discussed this afternoon. I’m jealous, of course. I’m suspicious she will try to steal you away from me. But I trust you. And I want to know—mostly because I’m curious, because I’m interested in your life. Because you’re my best friend.”

Hilda raises an arm, beckons Zelda back to the makeshift bed. Zelda lies down next to her, and they turn on their sides toward each other. Hilda places a hand on Zelda’s bare hip, and Zelda covers that hand with her own. Hilda begins,

“Miss Wardwell is so chivalrous, opened the passenger door of her car for me when she picked me up this morning…”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, the timeline on this is kinda wonky canon-compliancy wise, but whatever. And I don’t know if all Black Weddings are supposed to be at night or the lighting of this show is so dark I can hardly tell what’s in the daytime anyway? So also whatever on that.


End file.
